


Bryd one Brere

by Cerberusia



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-07 10:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: "Anakin," said Obi-Wan, "you really needn't sit in my lap."





	Bryd one Brere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thymesis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymesis/gifts).



> This fic took a little while to come together, but once I joined everything up 'correctly' - it just flowed! Thank you for your lovely prompts; I'm only sorry that I didn't have time to write more for them.

"Anakin," said Obi-Wan, "you really needn't sit in my lap."

Anakin fluttered his lashes in a ridiculous and (mostly) unattractive way. He did not get off Obi-Wan's lap.

"But then how will they know that I'm your catamite?"

"My _catamite_ , indeed." Obi-Wan snorted. "An even worse term than _boytoy_. Delusions of grandeur."

"It makes me a _classy_ boytoy, which I can assure you I definitely am." Anakin took a delicate sip of juice, as if to prove the point. Unfortunately, Obi-Wan had already seen him at table plenty of times.

"Expensive, at least," he said drily. He didn't return to the subject of Anakin sitting in his lap: for as long as Obi-Wan had known him, Anakin had been physically demonstrative when either frightened or exuberant. Perhaps this mission worried him more than he was letting on; or maybe he just saw an opportunity to tease his Master.

In the event, there was nobody at the Ganthel shuttle port to witness their display. As the landing ramp descended, the planet's hot, humid air slapped Obi-Wan like a warm, wet towel to the face. Anakin looked similarly taken aback by the unpleasant sensation - Tatooine might have been a desert, but dry heat was a very different proposition to the thick, sweaty atmosphere of a Ganthel summer.

Their transport - a commerical passenger shuttle, no Jedi affiliation - had been directed to land not within the main spaceport, but in the uncovered cargo dock: hence their exposure to Ganthel's climate. It was unusual, and Obi-Wan wondered whether it constituted a deliberate snub by the faction with whom they were supposed to be meeting. If so, it was a stupid one: he and Anakin could have got into any number of interesting nooks and crannies on their way to the main concourse. The Kotaska could have done with learning that maxim about keeping one's enemies close.

They passed unmolested through the port - _too_ umolested? - and into Ganthel proper. Ganthel was an industrial world much like Kuat, centering its activity on shipyards and vast warehouses to distribute far-flung delicacies to the Core Worlds. Its proximity to Coruscant made Obi-Wan nervous about their deception: the Jedi were known here, and at any moment he specifically might be recognised. He was a knight rather than a master, which granted him still a degree of anonymity, at least.

But no-one on Ganthel gave the man and his much younger, prettier, and more made-up companion a second look. Obi-Wan could feel Anakin almost vibrating with curiosity over the machinery being built, bought and sold all around them. Droids and starships were Anakin's passions, and the student had taught the master: despite Obi-Wan's lack of interest in or aptitude for mechanics, he could now recognise some of the more popular engine and hyperdrive models, and recall their date of manufacture. Anakin insisted that this was essential information for anyone who travelled the galaxy as much as they did, and Obi-Wan had submitted to the tuition with an open mind.

Their assigned meeting place on Ganthel was a hotel, neither the greatest nor the poorest. _The Furthest Star_ was clearly designed to service clients for the shipyards, or so Obi-Wan deduced from the pictures on the walls of the lobby. Apart from that, it was a hotel of the sort you might find on Coruscant or Corellia or Hosnian Prime, perfectly boxy, bog-standard Core World architecture and furnishings. The ideal of the anonymous business hotel made in plexiglass and steel.

Anakin's adoring servile expression was starting to look slightly constipated by the time Obi-Wan and he arrived at their room, which was just as anonymous as the rest of the building. It looked almost exactly like one Obi-Wan had stayed in with Qui-Gon on Kuat when they'd visited the drive yards there. Even the carpet might have been the same.

But there was one very noticeable difference: the double bed.

Anakin shoved him onto it; Obi-Wan saw the movement coming and let himself fall onto his back, then watched as Anakin crawled atop him. He put his hands on Anakin's small waist as he expanded his senses to check for hidden microphones and cameras.

"Clear," he murmured in Anakin's ear.

All Anakin's breath came out of his body in a tremendous sigh.

" _Finally_ ," he announced. Then he seemed to realise that he was still straddling Obi-Wan's hips while wearing somewhat revealing clothing, and he rolled to one side with slightly red ears - though not without first giving Obi-Wan the old up-and-down.

I ought to congratulate him, Obi-Wan thought. That's more subtle than I ever managed when I was his age.

There was no reason for this to complicate things. Obi-Wan knew that Anakin sometimes looked at him with a particular interest - the kind that was strongest when he wasn't wearing many clothes. It was the same interest that Obi-Wan had experienced at Anakin's age, when he started to become aware of his own Master's body underneath his robes. Anakin was fifteen now: it was only natural. It was practically a rite of passage for Padawans.

He wished that he could recall how Qui-Gon had dealt with the matter. That he couldn't do so suggested that Qui-Gon had been so subtle and tactful about the whole thing that it had gone completely unremarked by his adolescent brain. Which was perfect, and exactly how he wished to deal with Anakin - except that he really couldn't remember, and was in no position to ask Qui-Gon for advice.

"I thought I was going to _explode_ ," Anakin complained. He shook his head and looked confused at the lack of Padawan braid touching his shoulder. It had been safely rolled up and compressed - Obi-Wan knew not how - behind his ear. Anakin had told him that it felt 'weird' but also confided in him that he was glad: he'd been afraid that he would have to cut it off.

"I thought you were, too." Anakin's weak point was still his impulsiveness. Perhaps it always would be.

"Those engines we saw, the ones that Abnedo was flogging to the Rodian in the fancy clothes - they were YT-114s, the fastest ever produced. They're 0.8!" Anakin was still going on in this fashion as he entered the refresher. Obi-Wan kept an ear open and considered their next move. It was evening, and their meeting with the Kotaska would supposedly take place just before dawn tomorrow. They had eaten on the shuttle - to give their 'hosts' fewer chances to poison them - so all that remained now was an early night. If he could persuade Anakin of that.

He looked down at the dark blue bedspread. The bed seemed very small right now, and just a little dangerous.

Anakin's sharp intake of breath caught his attention.

"Anakin?" He opened the door to the refresher to find Anakin holding out his hands - their palms flushed pink. There was a bar of soap on the floor.

"It doesn't hurt! It just _really_ tingles." He shook his hands vigorously. "Why would soap do that?"

"Here, let me take a look." Obi-Wan led Anakin to the bedroom, away from the apparently hazardous soap, to examine his hands. Anakin was quite right, he wasn't injured; even the pink colour was fading.

It wasn't an accident, of course. But was it a genuine attempt at harm, or only a warning about apparently harmless objects?

There was nothing to be done. Obi-Wan went back into the refresher, picked up the offending soap with the aid of a handtowel, and disposed of them both: the first down the garbage chute, the second to the laundry.

"The meeting is scheduled for early tomorrow," he said when he returned to the bedroom. "We should get some rest."

"Sure," said Anakin, slightly sulkily. He never got enough sleep as was proper for a growing boy, in Obi-Wan's opinion, and despite the awkward circumstances, he was pleased with the notion that he would know that for once, Anakin was definitely going to bed on time.

\---

It started out quite reasonably. Given Anakin's personality, Obi-Wan had assumed him a few years ago to be an active sleeper, ever running off more of his excess energy. But instead, years of sharing a room with him had proved that he was almost unnaturally still. It was a useful skill, and one almost impossible to teach unless one replaced sleep with meditation - something Obi-Wan had once been an admirer of, but now was skeptical about after he had caught Leesa Moninari - its greatest advocate - snoring during her 'meditation'.

Obi-Wan had for years been a restless and difficult sleeper, until he had managed to use meditation as a gateway to sleep. So, while Anakin wriggled next to him in his thin pyjamas until he found a comfortable spot, Obi-Wan simply lay on his back, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the Force.

It was all going very well until Anakin shuffled closer under the thin hotel cover. Obi-Wan felt the mattress dip with his Padawan’s weight. There was no reason to be concerned. They were in a strange room on a strange and potentially hostile planet. Anakin only wanted to be held or kept warm. He ignored his quickening pulse that tried to tell him there was danger. 

"Master? Are you awake?"

I certainly am now, Obi-Wan wanted to say. But he just croaked,

"Yes." Anakin's body gave off heat and he could feel it, could feel just how close Anakin was.

Something hot touched his arm - Anakin's hand, which felt like it was burning through the thin layer of Obi-Wan's sleeping robe to the skin beneath. He didn't dare look at Anakin, because if he looked, he might - 

Anakin’s body plastered its heat against his side. Surely he was only - but Obi-Wan could now feel exactly what Anakin wanted, pressed hot right up against his thigh. His mind went blank with - shame, horror, tongue-numbing desire. He had never been so bold with Qui-Gon, had confined his longing to heavy stares and stolen, insignificant touches. What would Qui-Gon have done? Tactfully ignored it? No, made some gentle but final comment on the matter. But for once Obi-Wan couldn't think of one of those, mouth too leaden with horrible want, and Anakin’s palm now rested heavy on his chest. 

He heard Anakin lick his lips in the darkness; and, because the darkness and the silence covered them more than the blanket, he didn't try to stop what he knew was coming. When Anakin inexpertly craned his neck to press the first chaste kiss to Obi-Wan’s lips, Obi-Wan relaxed his body and opened his arms. 

There, in that anonymous hotel room on Ganthel, where they were staying under false names and on false pretenses, Obi-Wan taught Anakin how to kiss. He parted Anakin’s lips with his tongue, and felt his whole lithe body shudder with excitement - then keep shivering, as their slick tongues entwined. Anakin was so responsive that Obi-Wan felt like a teenager again too. He wound his fingers in Anakin’s mop of blondish hair and felt the Padawan braid where it was tucked safely out of the way. He would have been sick with loss if it had been cut. Feeling that lump of bound hair should have made him stop, made him think about how deflowering his fifteen year old Padawan wasn't the kind of teaching the Temple had in mind, no matter what was rumoured on the lower levels of Coruscant - but it only spurred him on to feel the proof of their bond. 

By this time Anakin was all but on top of him, taking hitching breaths through his nose and making thrusting motions against Obi-Wan’s thigh as he sloppily kissed Obi-Wan's lips. It was driving both of them crazy, though Obi-Wan strove not to show it. 

It would be easy just to let Anakin rub himself to a climax using Obi-Wan’s body, like boys that age so easily could. Obi-Wan himself had experimented with other Padawans that way when he was Anakin’s age. Some kissing, some friction, some rolling about the bed if they weren't trying to be discreet. They hadn't even needed to remove their clothes, for further plausible deniability. Yes, that would be easiest. It could all be passed off as teenagerish experimentation and hormones in the morning. 

“Mm, Master…” Anakin was thrusting more insistently now and murmuring indistinctly into Obi-Wan’s mouth. “Yes!” Some more shuddering, a high-pitched gasp, and a rush of wet heat on Obi-Wan’s bare thigh. Obi-Wan’s own erection was throbbing between his legs, and he had to counsel himself to patience so he wouldn't touch it. 

Anakin was still squirming in his arms, racked by aftershocks. His slack mouth panted hot breaths against Obi-Wan’s sensitive neck. It wasn't surprising that he was taking so long to recover from what Obi-Wan knew very well to be his first orgasm at another's hands. 

But he wasn't recovering. His erection still dug into his Master's thigh, his breathing was still ragged with desire. Even for a fifteen year old, this was bizarre. It was as if he hadn't come at all.

"Master, I need…” Anakin groaned breathily in his ear and writhed, and Obi-Wan understood very well what he needed. His head spun even more as he realised what had truly prompted this bold night time seduction. 

Movement, blankets thrown aside, blur - he sat up, only to be pushed flat again as Anakin came to straddle his waist just as he had earlier. Only wearing fewer clothes and with a pleading expression in his dark-lashed eyes.

"Please, Master, it's so..." he trailed off again as he thrust his erection against Obi-Wan's belly, where his sleeping gown had come loose.

Three years ago on Zonama Sekot, Obi-Wan had watched Anakin's face, relaxed and solemn in sleep, and remarked to himself how beautiful his Padawan was.

Anakin was no longer beautiful in the same childlike way: he was a teenager, and at fifteen his face had lost the roundness of childhood. But Obi-Wan could see perfectly well that Anakin was metamorphosing into a handsome young man. It worried him, sometimes: though not overtly charming, Anakin could wrap other beings round his little finger through sheer force of personality. To add in good looks seemed almost dangerous.

He phrased it in this academic way in his head, and it helped him to pretend that he was still capable of considering Anakin's appearance from a neutral viewpoint. On the occasions that he couldn't keep up the pretense, he observed that parents often had inflated ideas about the attractiveness of the offspring both in looks and personality.

Unfortunately, with Anakin on top of him, wearing no clothes and saying things that he had certainly not picked up in the Temple, Obi-Wan was forced finally to admit to the simple fact of the matter: that he found his Padawan attractive in certain ways at fifteen years of age that he had not at nine or twelve.

"Anakin, this isn't you," he said, trying to keep a clear head. "You've eaten or drunk or smelled something aphrodisiac." He ran through the list of things that could have been tampered with: no food, no drink - but the soap? Why give them a bar of aphrodisiac soap was a question for another time.

"It is me, Master! Please, I've wanted this for ages, and I can't not." And before Obi-Wan could challenge that statement, Anakin's head - the remaining blond in his curls catching the moonlight - bent to kiss him.

Anakin didn't kiss like an experienced seducer, so Obi-Wan couldn't blame his reaction on being overcome by sheer pleasurable impulse. Anakin kissed like a teenaged boy who'd got a lot of practice over the past few minutes - practice, specifically, in what Obi-Wan liked, because Obi-Wan had inadvertently taught him exactly how he liked to be kissed. 

When Obi-Wan returned Anakin’s hungry kiss and let Anakin run eager hands over his body inside his loose sleeping robe, he wasn't thinking of the very old and by now quite disreputable custom of the Master deflowering the Padawan, though he'd thought about it often enough when he was under Qui-Gon’s tutelage. 

He didn't give into Anakin’s desperate, adolescent, likely drug-induced advances for either of these reasons. He gave in because it felt _right_.

Some Jedi had been known to claim that one might connect to the Force through sexual intercourse. Obi-Wan had always found it far more likely that they just personally experienced excellent orgasms; but there was something spiritual about his coupling with Anakin, something urgent and vital and powerful, something like the consummation of a process he hadn't realised was happening. And when the physical act was over, Anakin still wouldn't let him go. 

“You’re mine now, Master,” he said, looking up under his thick dark lashes and smiling a teasing smile. And Obi-Wan, ignorant of what this possessive streak presaged and on fire with love, only smiled back.


End file.
